I Guess It Wasn’t My Lucky Lipstick After All

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Today I was on the phone with a friend for twenty-one minutes and thirty-six seconds. I know this because when I hang up my phone immediately tells me how long I talked for. I guess this is supposed to be some kind of helpful feature, so you can keep track of how many of your alloted minutes you’re using. This never worries me, though, because we have approximately four hojillion minutes in the bank. As it is, it’s just another annoyance that makes me feel like my life’s being measured out and apportioned.

At the end of my twenty-or-so minute phone call, I realized that the house had gotten deadly quiet. Like the absence of people. That feeling you get when you come home and the stove’s cold and the house is stuffy and there’s a note on the table that says, “We went to the beach! (Fuck you!)”

“I should wrap this up,” I said. “My house is too quiet.”

“Uh-oh,” my friend said. “You better go find out what Strudel’s up to.”


lipstickempty.jpg

In her defense, sometimes she’s sitting on her bed reading, or playing with her sister’s hand-me-down dollhouse. Today she was eating my lipstick.

I walked upstairs and she had clowny face and lipstick and eyeliner streaks all over her limbs and tee-shirt. My first thought was, “Oh, this is going to be fun to clean up.” My second thought was, “OH SATAN PLEASE DON’T LET HER HAVE CONSUMED MY MAC STUFF.” As I was running a bath for her, I assessed the damage. Every bottle of nail polish, every surface of the box, and every little item in it was covered with pink and red greasy fingerprints. Every lipstick and eyeliner had been opened, and most had been subjected to that jammy-kid lid replacement technique where you end up with a little slice or dent at the tip. Praise be to Zod, the MAC stuff was not et.

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? I wasn’t even upset. About an hour before, I received a certified letter from my ex-husband. Looks like he’s making the move to the island after all. My insides seized up when I read it, because it had phrases like “sixty-day notice” and “changing the residential schedule” and hoomhaws like that. I flashed back to 2004 when I was trying to prove that I was not an alcoholic pornographing Satan-worshipping dog-fucker. After Strudel’s bath I laid on the bed, trying like hell to read a book and to stop wanting to not BE.

I felt somewhere between bad and nothing. I didn’t want to deal with this. I wanted to shatter into a zillion pieces, and have those pieces turn to dust that would drift into the cracks in the floorboards and float out the window. If I turned to powder, then I wouldn’t feel that heavy feeling like I could never move my limbs again. And maybe the Asshole Powder would get into the eyes of someone who was mongling my fucking flowers or something.

Before Tiny Courtney Love went upstairs and made herself pretty, I had this knee-jerk reaction to rip down my blog here (or, rather have Daniel do it) and climb back into that little hole of WOW I AM A BAD PERSON that I was in for most of 2004. Divorce can do that, I guess. I could erase myself. No one can say bad things about you if no tendrils of your life, thoughts, and feelings exist anywhere.

(Just now I am thinking about the fact that when the Naked Ferrel Dwarf gets a little bigger I want to start writing longer stuff and foisting on more people and say, “Hey, print this in your wordbox.” If I hit that lottery and get a book or a story published, and then I get into a sex scandal involving a vicar, an umbrella once owned by Truman Capote, and a jelly doughnut, will I run around snatching my writing out of everyone’s hands? “You can’t see me, for I am invisible!” I think people will see me through my words whether they hate me or not, and whether I am currently gloriously beatified or shoveling puppies into a furnace.)

But I didn’t tell you about one of the eaten lipsticks, the one in the picture. Look at the fucking teeth marks on the tube. OH! My chest ached. It was like she had chewed directly on my left aorta or something. I got this lipstick in the amazing year 1998. I know, I know, you’re supposed to throw them out, but I loved this stuff. It’s the only stuff I used right down to the plastic, and then I found out that the company stopped making the color. After that, I saved it and would use it on really important occasions where I wanted to feel good, like on a job interview.

And I realized today that I only got about half of those jobs anyway.

I guess what I am saying is that I am going to live my life. And writing about my life. And part of my life right now looks like it’s going to involve some of the nasty sensations it did a couple of years ago during my divorce. Good things happen when I keep writing, though, even if it’s just that I feel better. I can’t make myself bulletproof, or lucky. I can only persevere.

23 thoughts on “I Guess It Wasn’t My Lucky Lipstick After All”

  4. The idea of weekdays/weekends sucks. Maybe 3 weeks Chez Asshole and 1 week with Sea-Fed would be better.

    That lucky lipstick wasn’t wasted on you! Your talent has become apparent! etc. Keep writing, darling. I’m roaring from the stalls for you.

  5. Hey beautiful, you are an awesome momma and a terrific writer, not to mention hellaciously hilarious-it’s not easy to be so damn funny about some of the things you’ve gone through. I love your kickass sense of humor. Please, do keep it up.

    Call if you need a shoulder to bitch on, or a metric buttload of tomatoes, or a massage…

  6. I don’t think the timing was coincidental. Rather, it was the universe’s way of telling you that it’s time to find a new lipstick color to use as a spiritual crutch. And here’s one vote for bacon-color (and -flavor, ideally). Why, you might even find that you’re suddenly getting all of those, urmm, “jobs” as you call them. Because everyone loves bacon!

  7. I can only persevere.

    Amen. This post is amazing SJ. I hope your words wind up in wordboxes and that you do get something on Truman Capote. You’re a cool person and parent, and I wish you all the best.

  8. I am wishing you the easiest possible time with this transition, whatever that looks like for you. I’m glad you didn’t go away, too.

  9. You know, if he’s taking her out of her school district, etc., isn’t HE the one that’s disrupting Franny’s beez? I would hope that works in your favor.

  10. It’s hard because there’s “no school districts” here and he’s going to be within the county. He just operates, always, on the assumption that he’s entitled to MOAR. He used to do this when we were married…jury-rig lemon cars and charge too much, waiting for the sucker.

  11. ARRRRRGHHHHHHH i wish i could kick him. i have my kicking boots on. just tell me when/where and i’ll be there!

    as everyone has said… you fucking rule, SJ… glad that you will keep on writing and i hope all this crap ends soon xxxo xxox xxox hang in there tiger.

  12. This sucks. I wish there was some right thing to say here, but if there is I don’t know it. I’m sorry this is going on, and am so glad you decided not to yerk the blog.
    I’m cheering for you down here in P-Town.

  13. This post was so awesome, and Bossy doesn’t even use words like ‘awesome’, words that make her feel like a Surfer Groupie. She prefers to use words like, ‘Dickwad’ – you know, words that make her feel like a Band Groupie.

    But anyway, this post was awesome.

    Bossy only has one question: Why in Bill Gates’ name do they discontinue popular lipstick colors?

  14. Poor, SJ. But, I like what Jope said about the end of lucky lipstick being a cosmic signal that it’s time to accept change. And you know, there may be a silver lining afterall with regards to the move (not to sound like a effen Pollyanna). Keep your chin up. Keep living your life the way you want. Definitely keep writing. You have so many supporters sending you good vibes into the universe — it’s gotta do some good, if nothing else it’s gotta feel good. (((((hugz)))))

  15. Fuck, dood. This made my chest go all tight with fear and loathing. I know you will persevere (hopefully in a leopard print dress), and It Will Be Okay. Although I realize that’s a dumbshit thing to say when life gets hard. I’ll be thinking of you.

  16. Dear God. I’m pretty sure you have a legal case here, but — speaking from experience — it’s really hard to weigh how worth it it is. Especially with kids. I hope this works out. The good news is: you have swell kids who will probably be okay. My kids are likewise smart and strong and I know that it helps in this kind of situation. Although infuriating! Because I didn’t like, raise my kids up right so that my idiot ex-husband could jack them around with impunity, you know? Jesus!

  17. I really hope you’ll be able to work things out diplomatically. And by “work” I mean for both of you, not just for Mr. “Entitlement Means Never Having to Consider Anybody Else’s Anything.” And for Franny, of course.

    Sending you cognac, Cointreau, lemon juice, and sugared rim (!) thoughts in the meantime.

  19. I feel like I’m always too late to comment on these Heavy posts, but I like to save up and catch up on several days’ worth of posts when I need a boost. You’re always good for that–I wish I could boost you back! Just remember that all of us internet folk (and a lot of lucky real life folk) love you and are rooting for you, and some of us Know People if you ever need a shady favor. :) Hang in there!

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